


Magnetopause

by acetamide



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acetamide/pseuds/acetamide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/4532.html?thread=10447540#t10447540">this prompt</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Magnetopause

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/4532.html?thread=10447540#t10447540).

Leonard McCoy really hates ion storms.

Within just a month of setting off on their first five-year mission, they encounter their first one as they travel around the edge of the Romulan Neutral Zone. They’re quietly making their way through a harmless nebula on the way to Starbase 157 when nearly all of the alarms on the Bridge go off to let them know that actually, the nebula isn’t as harmless as it first appeared.

It had been too late to avoid it so they go through on yellow alert, and by the time they come out the other side nearly every single crewmember’s sense of balance and navigational ability has gone to shit. They spend several hours wandering around bumping into things and falling over before the effects wear off, and McCoy keeps up a constant grumble about his sickbay being full of clumsy idiots, even though he can barely hold a hypo straight himself, because that’s what’s expected of him.

The second time is about six months later, when they’re returning from a routine supply run to Antos IV, after way too many giant dry-worms for anybody’s liking. This ion storm’s far harder to detect than the previous one had been and this time they don’t realize until they’re already in it – the bridge suddenly becomes alive and panicked with activity, and McCoy steps back to avoid getting knocked down by Chekov hurtling past him. Only, as he steps back, he trips over the step and ends up twisting and face-planting into the nearest console as a new shock wave rattles through the ship, threatening to break it up.

He spends the next week or so able to hear the thoughts of everyone around him, and by the time he’s managed to tune it out so that he can actually concentrate and do his goddamn job, it goes for no reason other than to piss him off even more. Jim thinks it’s all brilliant. McCoy does not agree and slams the door in his face the third night in.

The third time is nearly a full year into their mission, when they’re transporting several ambassadors back to Coridan Prime, a storm roars into existence just a few parsecs from the planet. The Enterprise is in orbit on the other side of the planet when it hits and Coridan shields her from the worst of the initial blast.

Over sixty percent of the planet’s population is killed within two minutes. More than half of the survivors subsequently die due to rapid radiation poisoning. Those who are left standing are forced to come aboard the Enterprise for treatment, since the entire planet’s systems were knocked offline by the force of the pulse.

By the time the Enterprise leaves orbit, there is less than ten percent of the Coridan Prime population still alive, and most of them are now terminally ill. McCoy promptly shuts himself in his quarters with Jim with strict instructions to Spock and Chapel that neither of them is to be disturbed until gamma shift, and they both proceed to drink until they pass out in an exhausted and self-loathing tangle of limbs.

Leonard McCoy hasn’t had that much experience of ion storms but what he has had is enough to put him off for life.

 

***

 

McCoy’s fourth ion storm is when they’re on their way to the nearest Starbase after shore leave on Andoria, where Jim had spent most of his time complaining about ice planets and McCoy had spent his time doing his best to ignore him and enjoy himself. He wasn’t particularly successful on either count.

He’s on the bridge when the alarms start to go off, and knows this time to keep well out of the way as the crew moves in a frenzy; Jim’s knuckles are white on the armrests of his chair and eyes fixed dead ahead. They’re lucky – between Chekov and Sulu and Scotty and Spock, they manage to skirt just around the edge safely. The lights flicker and the hull rumbles but that’s the extent of the interference, and McCoy hears his sigh of relief echoed across the otherwise deadly silent bridge as they move away.

That’s when it starts.

“All decks this is the Captain speaking, status reports. I guess we got lucky that time I wonder what it was, coronal mass ejections or something what’s the nearest star it can’t be a permanent one or there’d be markers we should put some up anyway if another ship’s detectors aren’t so good they could get caught in it I wonder what the side-effects of this one are?” Jim says, all in one breath, and stops as soon as he started, and he blinks a few times before beginning to mutter under his breath.

“Shut, up, Jim,” McCoy says mildly, even as the rest of the crew cast him amused glances. “Internal monologues are kind of meant to happen in your head.”

“Okay so next time we’re going somewhere warm and sunny with no ice and we’re going to have inappropriate amounts of sex do Vulcans really have retractable penises? That can’t be comfortable but then they are anatomically different in other ways internally, like who would have their heart where their liver should be it’s ridiculous I need to do read up on my xenobiology journals can’t let Bones get too far ahead of me still can’t get the right pronunciation for some of the Cardassian consonants, need to ask Uhura about that…”

“Seriously, Jim, shut up,” McCoy snaps, because that really isn’t the sort of thing that Jim should be saying out loud, though it does lend some evidence to his secret theory that Jim is constantly thinking about sex. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Spock moving towards them and even as he speaks, Jim hasn’t stopped. It’s almost impressive. It’s also worrying.

“…I can’t believe me I am trying also hey if Scotty can get us superluminal and increase the effective electromagnetic radiation then we can boost the antimatter we’ll be able to push her to warp thirteen gotta remember to tell him that’s one hell of a headache coming on jesus ow Chekov I need all tactical reports from the last two months although we’d have to give enough room for fluctuations in the displacement field…”

“Captain?” Spock says as he steps up to the chair, his head tilted to one side in a way that could almost be considered concerned by Vulcan standards, and McCoy knows that something’s wrong. Jim on a high is one thing but Jim on a high that’s seriously hurting him is another and yet he’s showing no signs of stopping or going to the sickbay. It’s a situation that McCoy’s found himself in several times and there’s really only one solution.

“…and I hope the replicators are fixed because seriously that chicken last night was just not _right_ I’d rather fucking hell ouch have plomeek soup and that stuff’s disgusting no offence Spock I’ll never get bored of looking out that viewscreen that really kinda hurts and I need to speak to Jo it’s been a few weeks I wonder how her tests went she’s one hell of a bright kid those reports on the ion storm need compiling okay vision’s going not so good Uhura keep an eye out for any other stop hovering Bones starships in the vicinity wait no Bones no _no_ –”

McCoy catches Jim as he slumps, his hand still raised in defense against the hypospray, his face wearing the same expression that he always does when he’s about to be sedated. The bridge is silent again, and they all watch as he drags Jim out of the chair and into the turbolift with Sulu’s help, leaving Spock in command of the startled officers on the bridge.

 

***

 

While Jim’s out for the count on one of the biobeds in sickbay, McCoy issues a command that anybody suffering adverse effects from the ion storm should come and see him immediately. Nobody does, and he isn’t surprised.

“It appears that Captain Kirk has been rendered unable to prevent himself from voicing his thoughts,” Spock concludes after they’ve spent what feels like an hour of looking over Jim’s charts and performing numerous neurographic scans. “A short circuit in his brain perhaps, caused by the ion storm. We can only assume that these side-effects of the storm will abate with time, as they have done previously.”

“And what, I have to listen to him yammering on about warp theory until his brain decides to work again?” McCoy grumbles, glancing briefly at Jim, and Spock’s left eyebrow twitches.

“That would appear to be the case, unless you are able to find a medical solution to the problem. I will take the conn until the beginning of gamma shift, by which point the sedatives should have worn off. I will inform the shift crew of the Captain’s condition myself.”

Spock doesn’t stay to chat, but then he never does – McCoy watches him leave, back straight and arms clasped behind his back as he walks out of the door, and then looks back down at Jim.

“It would have to be you, wouldn’t it?” he says tiredly, brushing his hair from his forehead. Jim doesn’t respond.

 

***

 

McCoy knows that’s Jim’s woken up not because he’s watching – though he has been keeping a close eye on him – or even because someone else tells him. No, he knows because he _hears_ him.

It starts as background noise, just a murmur behind him. Then it becomes a mutter, then grows in volume and speed until McCoy suddenly realizes that Jim is rattling through all of the possibilities for his sudden predicament at breakneck speed with medical theories that he shouldn’t even know. McCoy turns around sharply and Jim’s staring straight up at the ceiling, his hands balled into fists at his sides and his body tense and shaking.

“Jim, slow down,” he says, alarmed, and moves to lay a hand on his shoulder. Jim’s body relaxes and his talking slows but doesn’t – his gaze just flicks to McCoy’s face and he keeps going.

“…I mean it’s got to be neurological those fucking storms can do some really random shit you look worried at least although yeah my head’s not gonna explode any more this is kind of embarrassing you got any idea more than me what this is yet what about Spock?”

“Same as you,” McCoy cuts his off, manually checking his pulse. It’s only slightly higher than normal. “Something’s messing with your nervous system, stopping you from controlling what you say in your head and what you say out loud.”

“And giving me really fucking painful headaches to boot can I get something for this was this what it was like when you were all telepathic because that was kind of awesome well I think so anyway I would have loved to have had that I guess this could be pretty cool too if not for this _headache_ Bones hypo please ow thanks,” Jim rambles pleasantly, and McCoy scowls at him.

“You already know how I feel about the telepathy so don’t bring it up,” he says over Jim babbling about quantum mechanics but apparently listening to McCoy intently regardless. “There’s nothing medically wrong with you so you can go back on shift but the second your head gets worse or anything happens you get your ass here, you got me?”

McCoy thinks that there’s an agreement somewhere in the stream of words that comes out of Jim’s mouth, but he’s not entirely sure. He lost it when Jim switched into Orion and then back again within a few seconds.

 

***

 

“…and so I decided I might as well speak in Vulcan to Spock and Uhura if it’s the only way I can keep stuff private, not like I’ve got any other choice and Bones you should have seen the looks that people were giving me it’s like they didn’t know I could speak it or something…”

“They probably don’t.”

“…and I felt bad because I don’t want to brag but I usually spot any mistakes that Chekov and Sulu make before they do but I let them work it out for themselves but I couldn’t _not_ tell them and then I felt kind of bad…”

McCoy sighs and lets Jim’s voice wash over him. Jim had announced his presence that evening with an endless recounting of his day, pausing every now and then for breath, and McCoy had just listened and Jim moved around the Captain’s quarters and got ready for bed. It could have been soothing if it wasn’t so annoying.

“…and seriously you’d think Spock was about to actually say something illogical but it’s not as if I don’t hit on Uhura on a regular basis so I don’t know what his problem was I swear he was gonna nerve pinch me wait hang on are you offended when I do stuff like that because I thought you knew I wasn’t serious oh crap Bones…”

“It’s fine, I don’t care so long as you don’t actually sleep with them,” McCoy replies flatly, like he has done a hundred times before and yet Jim still doesn’t seem to believe. He’s staring up at the ceiling and he just realized that he’s not going to get any sleep any time soon when Jim’s hand creeps across his hip, fingers feather-light and teasing as lips are pressed against his shoulder.

“..and that’s one of the best things about you. You actually know me and you trust me and you don’t worry about me. Plus you are really fucking hot,” Jim murmurs, leaning closer as his hand forms a loose circle around McCoy’s cock and it twitches with interest accordingly.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” McCoy says, and pulls him in for a kiss as he bucks lazily into his hand.

“If my insatiable you mean awesome then yeah, I am though seriously what was Chekov thinking with those calculations? If we’d continued on that route then the hull temperature would have soared we were that close to the flare and that would have seriously fucked up the systems and all the liquid nitrogen in the world wouldn’t have kept us from –”

“Jesus Christ, Jim,” McCoy snarls, jerking away and staring at him in surprise. “Can’t you keep your mind on the task in hand for once? You telling me that you’re contemplating thermodynamics every time we have sex, I’m that boring?

“No shit sorry I didn’t –”

“Look, this isn’t going to work,” McCoy snaps, rolling out of bed and pulling his clothes back on, and Jim’s hands follow him, grasping at his shoulder and then hip.

“…I didn’t mean to say it I swear it just crossed my mind I didn’t –”

“Jim,” McCoy says firmly, pushing those needy hands from his body and standing up. “Don’t. Just stop talking, for fuck’s sake.”

“I _can’t_ and I don’t mean to and I’m _sorry_ …”

McCoy doesn’t hear the rest of it. He’s already out of the door, hoping to high hell that the people who pass him on his way down to deck nine can’t tell how embarrassed and incompetent he’s feeling.

 

***

 

He doesn’t sleep much better in his own bed, but that’s possibly because he’s not really slept in it alone for almost six months now. It feels cold and empty and not like home, and he twists and turns for hours before falling into a fitful sleep that grants him more aches and pains than rest.

He doesn’t see Jim for most of the next day, and he’s not sure if that’s because they’re avoiding each other or if it’s completely innocent. What he does encounter is the rest of the crew, and they don’t stop talking in hushed tones about the Captain and his inability to stop talking. They themselves seem pretty fucking good at shutting up whenever McCoy approaches them, and it’s a small victory that he can still make the ensigns quake as he passes them.

Jim finally rolls into the sickbay as dinner approaches and hoists himself onto the biobed nearest McCoy, murmuring under his breath as he does so. He stares straight ahead and simply waits for McCoy to finish his stock check and then administer the hypospray in near-silence.

“You look like shit,” McCoy says quietly after a few moments, running a tricorder over Jim’s head and neck, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“No not really,” Jim says suddenly, raising his voice so that he can be understood. “Couldn’t get my mind clear couldn’t stop thinking and running things over in my head way too much going on.”

“I’m sorry I walked out,” McCoy says with a sigh, setting the tricorder down and letting go of Jim to fold his arms over his chest. “I know this isn’t easy.”

“Yeah well ion storms are just a fact of life so I need to man up and deal with it like we’ve done with all the problems we’ve faced all those hundreds of issues because fucking ion storms aren’t going away any time soon been around since the goddamn Big Bang now there’s one hell of a topic for me to go one might as well, nothing better to do you ever learn about the Big Bang, Bones? Quark-gluon plasma, that’s one thing created in the Big Bang and that’s some strange stuff it’s a phase of quantum chromodynamics existing at extremely high pressures and densities they found uses for it at the end of the twenty-first century not that it didn’t have natural uses anyway –”

“Jim. Focus,” McCoy barks, a pang of worry niggling at the back of his head, but Jim keeps going anyway.

“ – and primordial nucleons were formed from the quark-gluon plasma from the Big Bang as it cooled below two trillion degrees and fuck you Bones focus is the fucking problem, and then the fusion process essentially shut down due to drops in temperature and density as the universe continued to expand and that's the first process of primordial nucleosynthesis also I just took your tricorder apart. Sorry.”

Jim pauses for a second and shoves his hands under his thighs, staring down at the ground with a determined look on his face as McCoy looks to the side and notices with surprise that his tricorder is indeed separated into its components on the table beside the bed. He takes a moment to catch up with all of the information that’s just been thrown at him and picks out one little detail.

“What the hell do you mean, focus is the problem?”

“Whenever I get focused on something and really start to think about it I have to comm Pike this evening then I can’t _stop_ thinking about it and I can’t stop talking about it and then I can’t think about anything else shit you’re gorgeous and then the headaches start and I really fucking hate ion storms I wish you’d come up with a way to looking good Chapel fix this because it is really pissing annoying and soon I’ll say something I’d rather not and it’ll be really really awkward.”

“You need to relax, Jim. Stop thinking so hard,” he says and he knows that he sounds worried but Jim doesn’t call him on it, so he takes a step forward and wraps a hand around the back of Jim’s neck, fingers curling into his short hair, and Jim leans into the touch.

“Then stay with me Bones it’s not so bad when you’re close, okay? Just stick around for a bit.”

McCoy doesn’t miss the way that Jim stops talking of his own accord and even seems to breathe between words this time.

“You’re saying that me touching you helps?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Jim says sullenly, his voice dropping until it’s an indecipherable muttering stream for a few moments before he speaks properly again. “It’s like when I’m around you my head’s not so full of shit and things to think about and I can kind of just relax and let go but not completely because there’s always stuff to be thinking about you just make it easier okay right yeah?”

Jim pauses and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose and rocking back and forth on his hands. His lips are still moving intermittently, forming words that Jim won’t allow to sound but can’t stop anyway because his brain just keeps hurtling forward whether he wants it to or not. A great wave of sadness washes of McCoy and he sighs heavily, pausing for a second before closing the gap between them and pulling Jim’s head in to his chest.

“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly as Jim’s hands fist in his blue shirt. “The crew’s working on it as best they can, you know that.”

Jim doesn’t reply, just holds on tighter, and McCoy knows that the only reason he’s keeping his mouth shut is because he’s afraid that if he opens it, he won’t be able to close it again.

 

***

 

He doesn’t try to sleep on his own that night and while Jim continues to mutter quietly even when he’s asleep, he still feels better rested when he wakes the following day.

 

***

 

Jim is looking extremely worse for wear when they meet up with Spock in the ready room a few days later, with hardly any progress having been made and the hours slowly ticking by as Jim talks himself into headaches and bad moods.

“We could always hook him up to a cortical stimulator,” McCoy suggests, and Jim’s face collapses into a frown so he continues quickly. “Alter the settings. Make it reduce brain activity instead of induce it.”

“I don’t want my brain activity reducing thanks very much that’s not the problem the problem is that I can’t keep my goddamn mouth shut and I can’t stop saying what’s on my mind and it’s gotten me a few slaps so far though not from you and I’m not sure rendering me brain dead is going to help anyone really is it?” Jim snaps and McCoy nearly snaps back, but he manages to bite his tongue because he can see just how tired Jim is of this, so he just presses his thigh a bit closer to Jim’s under the table.

“Have you considered neuropolaric induction, Doctor?” Spock asks, raising his voice slightly over Jim’s muttering. “The Captain’s symptoms and scans indicate that his basal ganglia are in all likelihood depolarizing, and coupled with the headaches there is a high risk that –”

“No,” McCoy says shortly, glaring across the table and holding his anger in check. “There is no way I’m going to perform that sort of surgery on him, you’ve got no proof that it’s necessary.”

“I was merely suggesting that you take it into consideration,” Spock replies mildly and completely unruffled, and McCoy wants to hit him.

“And I’m afraid I’ll be ignoring your suggestion this time. But this might be useful – Jim told me that when he’s not thinking too hard, when he can stop thinking about too much stuff, it’s easier,” he says instead, and Spock tilts his head slightly as though an idea has occurred to him.

“Then perhaps the best course of action would be to allow the Captain’s mind to go, as you would say, blank. If the severity of his condition is based on his brain activity, then your earlier suggestion has some merit.”

“I already told you no fucking modified cortical stimulators chances are I’ll come out brain dead and then I’ll be no use to anyone and I’ll get fucking discharged and end up living one hella lonely and miserable life in some backwater shithole alone and without you and there is no fucking way I’m doing that no fucking –”

“ _Jim_ ,” McCoy says quietly, taking hold of his arm in a firm grip and fixing him with hard stare. “Calm down, you already said no so we’re not going to try it.”

“Forgive me, I was not clear in my thoughts,” Spock apologizes, and Jim glowers at him like a petulant child. “What I was attempting to suggest was that you clear your mind through more traditional methods, for example meditation, or some other activity which you find calms you.”

“It’s a possibility,” McCoy concedes, and feels Jim shrugs beside him.

“I guess I could work out or something that usually calms me down not sure about meditation though not really my thing but I can try it maybe we’ll see,” he says flatly, and then stands up suddenly. “Okay we’re done here back to the bridge Spock and Bones you go do whatever it is you do when your sickbay’s not full I’ve got a million reports to write and I need to contact Pike over the next few hours shit I’m hungry.”

With that, he stands up quite suddenly as walks straight out of the ready room, rubbing his temple in a way that makes McCoy’s hands itch to find the nearest hypospray. He watches Jim leave and then glances at Spock, who is staring at him.

“I fear that the Captain is beginning to struggle with his condition,” he says as though he’s letting McCoy in on some scandalous secret that he’s sworn never to tell anybody, and McCoy can’t quite hold back the sneer this time.

“Gee, Spock,” he says flatly, standing and following Jim. “You think?”

 

***

 

It’s nearing the end of beta shift when Uhura approaches him, and he’s hanging around the bridge in the same way that he usually does when he has nothing better to do – only this time there’s a reason, and it’s one that he’d rather not have.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks quietly, so that only Spock can hear and he pretends not to anyway, and McCoy rubs a hand over his face and sighs.

“Not well,” he admits, watching Jim rattle on quietly about astrophysics equations that McCoy can’t even try to wrap his head around, staring sullenly out of the viewscreen. “He sleeps easier if he’s near me but then he mutters in his sleep and I don’t get a lick of shut-eye. And if I go to my own quarters then he turns up having not slept at all looking like shit and still muttering about who knows what.”

“And then you feel guilty about not staying with him,” Uhura concludes, and he sighs with a nod.

“Exactly. I just want this to be over. It’s annoying as hell, yeah, but it’s taking its strain on him and it’s not fair.”

Uhura just looks at him with her big brown eyes, and tells him that Spock is willing to help him meditate, if that’s what he needs.

 

***

 

When the chrono tells him that it’s twenty-two hundred hours he makes his way to Jim’s quarters, only to find them empty, and he has a brief moment of inexplicable panic that makes his chest ache before calming himself down and going out to look for him.

He finds him alone in the gym, pummeling the punch bag in the corner. His body is tensed in hard lines and angles and as McCoy watches, his rambling gets louder and faster and harsher and more broken until he finally stops with a choking noise, holding onto the bag in front of him as his breath comes in heaving gasps and his arms shake, pressing his forehead to the rough fabric.

McCoy comes up behind him and he can hear the muttering from six feet away. Jim doesn’t flinch as he approaches, and he doesn’t protest when McCoy takes him gently by the shoulders and guides him away from the gym.

 

***

 

Jim Kirk used to think that half of the time, ion storms were kind of amusing. Like that time that Bones ended up with telepathic abilities, that was brilliant. Some of the best sex they’d had in ages. Of course, there were the few times when the storms caused planetary disasters but usually, they had pretty ridiculous results.

Over the past six days, he’s come to realize that ion storms are only funny when their effects don’t happen to you.

To begin with, it was kind of ridiculous, if he ignored the headaches which he was perfectly capable of doing. But after a few days, when it wouldn’t go away and started affecting his working relationship with his crew, he realized that it wasn’t so awesome after all. He is sick and tired of this shit. Whatever it is that’s making his brain to mouth filter just not work is showing no signs of _starting_ to work again and he hates it.

 

***

 

He organizes for himself and Spock to have coinciding shifts and he leaves the bridge as sixteen hundred hours rolls around and strides to his first officer’s quarters, keeping a steady stream of theoretical mathematics going as he walks and trying to filter out the inappropriate comments about the various female crewmen that he passes.

He only gets one filthy look, which he counts as a win for the day.

Spock is waiting for him when he arrives – there’s his strange little lamp resting on the floor in front of him, next to where Jim expects he’s supposed to sit, the flame flickering gently in the slightly darkened room. Spock opens his eyes when Jim walks in, apparently listening carefully to the inane chatter and watches as Jim folds himself into a cross-legged position on the rug in front of him.

Ten minutes later, Jim leaves Spock’s quarters with a worse headache than he started with.

 

***

 

It’s Janice that comes up with the idea, of all people.

Or rather, it’s Janice that prompts him to come up with the idea by way of an in-depth discussion about her relationship issues with her new husband. She finds it fantastic that she gets Jim’s completely honest and immediate response to all of the questions that she puts to him, despite the fact that he really wants to escape from this, and it’s when she starts talking about how she’s stopped being able to orgasm when with him that it clicks in his head.

He excuses himself and tries not to muse aloud about her sex life as he runs down the corridor. It’s surprisingly difficult.

 

***

 

Technically he could do this himself but he doesn’t _want_ to, and besides, he can just pretend that Bones’ participation is completely necessary until he agrees to it and then after that, it really won’t matter at all.

“I need to have sex with you right now Bones you got me let’s go,” he says quickly as he marches into Bones’ quarters, and the look that greets him is almost worth this whole ordeal in the first place.

“What the hell, Jim?” Bones exclaims, standing from where he was signing off on some requisition forms and taking a few steps towards him. “You feeling okay?”

“My mind, Bones,” Jim says by way of explanation as firm hands grip his biceps, the touch warm and familiar and calming. “I need to blank my mind, this could work. We might as well try it.”

Bones takes a moment before responding, and Jim can practically see the cogs turning in his head and it takes all of his concentration on Bones’ hands around his arms not to start spewing all of the random shit that’s going through his head right now. Eventually Bones pulls a face and shrugs.

“So long as you don’t try and seduce me with a lecture on thermodynamic equilibria again,” he says evenly, backing Jim carefully across the room and towards the room, and Jim can’t help but grin as the backs of his knees hit the bed.

“Can’t promise anything old man but I’ll try so long as you don’t let go,” he shoots back as he falls back onto the bed, and in the split second that Bones lets go of him his mouth drops open and he nearly continues speaking. But then Bones’ weight is pressing him down into the bed and Bones’ lips are sliding against his, hard and insistent, and the multiple, endless streams of consciousness flowing through his head ease and quiet to a background murmur as Bones kisses him.

“I can’t believe you just stormed in here and demanded that I have sex with you,” Bones mutters, his hands colliding with Jim’s as they both fumble with clothing, and Jim is half-tempted to tell him that if he has to keep his thoughts to himself then Bones has to keep his grumpiness to himself, but he doesn’t. A few equations might slip out at the same time and that’d just be taking a step backwards.

“Don’t act put-upon, you’ve missed this as much as I have,” he counters instead, pulling Bones down by his neck for another breathless kiss, but Bones jerks back with an indescribable look on his face.

“Wait, you’re telling me you haven’t whacked a single one off since this whole shitstorm started?” he asks in surprise, and Jim shakes his head. There’s no point denying it.

“Wasn’t really in the mood after you walked out on me,” he points out, but he doesn’t want to start this conversation again and if he doesn’t do something fast then he won’t have a choice because he’ll say it anyway, so he takes hold of Bones’ half-hard cock in his palm and tugs it firmly. Bones shudders against him, his eyes squeezing shut as he reaches one hand down to join him, the other supporting him.

“So what’s your theory then?” Bones gasps as Jim’s thumb flicks over the head of his cock, his own hand twisting around Jim in practiced, experienced motions.

“I’m thinking like those old-school defibrillators, remember them?” Jim grunts, pushing up into his hand and mouthing at his neck. “They didn’t start the heart, they _terminated_ the arrhythmia so normal sinus rhythm could be restored.”

“I know my twenty-first century medicine, Jim. So you’re going to reset your mind?” Bones concludes with a gentle bite to juncture of neck to shoulder, and Jim moans as their hands mingle and slip with precome between them, desperate and needy and perfect as his stomach tightens and the low burn spreads.

“Yeah, that’s basically the plan,” Jim says finally and it’s more of an exhalation than anything else, because Bones’ hand is moving fast between them and pulling and pushing and twisting and rising and he’s struggling to think of anything else but the feel of Bones on him, skin to skin and mouth to mouth.

“Jim,” Bones whispers, and that’s all that Jim needs.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, and he’s not sure if it’s voiced or not.

 

***

 

He’s not even sure if he managed to come or not, and that’s a depressing thought in itself.

His mind is strangely blank but it fills quickly, and one of the first things that he realizes is that at some point between him blacking out and waking up again he’s been completely undressed and under the soft covers of Bones’ bed. Also, he’s curled up into Bones’ side against warm skin and there’s a gentle hand running up and down his back.

“Hey,” Bones murmurs, somehow sensing that he’s awake, and Jim cracks his eyes open to look up at him.

“How long was I out?” he asks, stretching slightly, and notes that he’s not sticky and Bones isn’t hard. A few minutes at least, then.

“Not long. It kind of freaked me, though. You just went out like a goddamn light, wouldn’t respond at all.”

“You’re just that good,” Jim replies drily, settling back down and curling his hand around Bones’ ribs.

“That’s it?” Bones asks in surprise after a few moments, as if he’d been expecting something, and Jim huffs against his skin.

“What do you want me to do, rate your performance on a scale of one to ten?” he snipes back, because he just babbled something that he didn’t think he’d every say to people outside his family and Bones wants to know how good it was for him? But Bones just nudges him, and when Jim looks up he can see that he’s almost smiling.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re not talking,” he points out, and Jim realizes that he isn’t. At all. “You’re not even muttering. It worked.”

“Huh,” Jim blinks. He rolls away from Bones, separating the contact and waits a short while for his mouth to start operating of its own accord but it doesn’t. It stays firmly shut and his thoughts stay firmly inside his own head for the first time in eight days. “Well, whadda you know.”

“You’d better test it,” Bones suggests, sitting up in bed and looking down at him, and Jim nods slowly. It’s strange – he was almost used to it, not having to think about speaking but just to _think_ instead and now, he realizes that Bones is waiting for a response with a strange half-smile on his face. But of course now, he has to make the effort to say it.

“Yeah, I’m going to get on that,” he says with a grin and jumps out of the bed, yanking his clothes back on in a somewhat haphazard fashion with a thousand reasons and conclusions and theories running through his head that _stay in his head_.

His crew watch him as he strides down the corridor, ready to listen to whatever it is that he’s thinking about and he grins at every confused look he gets. At no point on his excursion does his mouth fail him and start shouting about how fucking awesome this is and his stride turns into a jog as he completes his quick lap around Engineering. He takes the steps back up to deck nine three at a time and he’s pretty much running as he approaches the familiar door with 3F 127 engraved upon a small plaque beside it, throwing open the door with a grin so huge that he feels like his face is about to split open.

Bones is still sitting up in bed, the sheets pooled around his waist and his hair ruffled, with that almost-smile on his face. He’s still waiting for him.

“I hope you realize that this does _not_ mean that sex is now a valid treatment for any of your various injuries,” he says flatly, but Jim can see that he’s amused and relieved and there’s an affection in his open face that Jim isn’t used to seeing that often, and it makes his chest aches.

He locks the door behind himself and takes his clothes back off again, and then proceeds to tell Bones _exactly_ what he’s thinking at this very moment.


End file.
